The Letter from the West
by Siiw
Summary: A letter from an Elf who might or might not be remembered to her descendants. Rated for mature themes.


To the current holder of the Lordship of Dol Amroth, in the Kingdom of Gondor, Middle Earth.

I do not know how to start this letter, nor do I know if it will ever reach its destination. I know that it has to be written, but the reason for it is not yet revealed to me. Maybe it will help my soul find some kind of peace, or maybe will what this letter tells, in any small way, be of use to any who might read it.

It could be that you know my name. You might know me as a coward, one who abandoned my family in a time when I was most needed. It could be that you do not know me at all; maybe my name has been completely forgotten, or was no longer spoken after what I did. My story will show you that I did indeed abandon them, your ancestors. It will also show you why. I ask for no forgiveness, because I expect none. This is merely an explanation, a story to fill in what you might already have heard from others.

The events I speak of took place many, many years ago. Still, many of them are as clear in my mind as if it was yesterday I remembered.

I was born and grew up in the land that you know as Lothlòrien. My youth there was happy, innocent you may say, filled with songs and laughter. I knew nothing better than lying for long hours on the fragrant grass, watching the glittering stars above, listening to the stories of my elders. They were ancient stories, and one of my favourite ones was about the time when my people first encountered the races of Men and Dwarves. The tales of those alien peoples fascinated me. In my mind, the patterns that the stars made would illustrate the stories.

When I was old enough to be counted among the women of my people, but still so young that the thought of a family of my own was still far away, the lands started to change. We would soon learn that a horrible evil had emerged from underneath the mountains to the west. I was among the people who decided to flee the land, or rather, my parents were. I had no conscious idea yet of what it meant to sail west, the concept of the Undying Lands was nothing more than another story to me.

The memory of the first meeting between Imrazôr the Nùmenòrean and me is as clear as crystal in my mind. The particular memory of exactly **how** this meeting happened, is far too private and too precious to me to be shared in a letter like this. As you might have been told, we bonded with each other, both in the way of his people and of mine. Life was happy with him. I had found my home, it felt like this was my line in the endless song of lives and history.

I can so vividly imagine him even now, smiling and shaking his head at how my memory could preserve a scene so flawlessly in his eyes. He did probably not know that this is simply how memory works, for all of the Firstborn.

Your ancestor was a wise and noble man. The future was in some moments as clear to him as the past is to me, although these glimpses were brief and rare. When our first child, Galador, was conceived, he knew it as clearly as I did. We were amazed at the miracle that brought us our son, and a few years later, our daughter, Gilmith. It took more of my energy to bear our daughter than it had done with our son, and it took me longer to recover from the second pregnancy than it usually takes for the Mortal women. For the Firstborn, however, it is more common for the mother to be completely exhausted afterwards, so none of us worried much about it.

It took me by surprise when I conceived again, in the late summer of the year 2012 of the Third Age. You who read this is probably a Mortal, and you do maybe not know that we Elven women know when this happens. I kept this as a secret. An inner voice, and later, a dream, told me that it would be wise to keep it to myself for a while longer. Something felt wrong, in a way that was impossible for me to understand or describe. I had simply no word or expression for it.

The feeling of wrongness grew stronger with the passing months, and when it had come to the time when my belly would start to show, it felt like my entire body was growing instead. My rings had shrunk, it seemed, and so had my shoes. I had the strangest feeling in my stomach, even inside my head, it felt almost like pain. Calling upon the memories of my youth and the wisdom of my people, I still had no word for this. It affected my appetite, and I could no longer drift off on the Path of Dreams at night. It took me more and more energy to be the person I should be.

About this time, a master healer from what was now known as Minas Tirith visited our household, to oversee the final test which would make one of our apprentices a qualified healer. I invited her to my quarters for a private conversation. It could be that my mind had already started to cloud over at that point, but what she told me was horrible.

The condition I suffered from was quite uncommon, she said, and could happen when the blood of the growing child was too different from the mother's blood. Bearing several children with this difference would only make it more serious. She probably tried to be gentle when she told me that it could end in only two ways: a birth before the child was fully grown, or death for both. Even if I had rushed to Rivendell or Lothlòrien, there would be no other possible outcome.

There was pity in her eyes when she offered to make me the herbal remedy that would end my pregnancy, as she had seen both pennyroyal and the blue sky flower growing in my own garden.

I told her in fury to leave my house, before I would have her charged for treason against the unborn princess. She asked me to poison my own child! Poor Imrazôr never learned why the healer disappeared so suddenly.

I got no sleep that night. It was not uncommon for me to spend a night in the library or just watching the stars sometimes, but that was a wanted and peaceful thing. This night, my head was spinning with thoughts and words. My mind must have gotten confused and exhausted from exploring all the different possibilities, listing desperate measures and weighing them against each other.

When the dawn came, however, it was as clear as the new day to me what must be done. I had to Sail. Only in the West could there be possible healing for my dear, unborn daughter.

I spent the day going through the rooms of our house. Each room held different memories, sight and smells. I tried to imprint everything in my mind. The storage rooms were full with food, wood, candles, everything a household would need for the winter. The closets held clothes, big enough for our growing children...no, I didn't want to think of how they would some day grow out of them. Not now. My mind was set.

When the night came, I went to bed with my husband as if nothing was wrong. It got dark early at this time of year. The stars were shining through our window. I lay still, watching the stars move slowly across the sky, and listened to his breath. When I was absolutely sure he was sleeping, I put my bare feet on the floor and walked away. I couldn't bear to look back.

My head was pounding from the effort of getting up, my legs felt alien, but I managed to enter the children's bedroom quietly. They had left the window open. How many times had I told them that it might make them catch a fever; it was already getting chilly at night. Galador and Gilmith had curled up in the same bed; he had probably been telling her a bedtime story again. As quietly as I could, I bent over the bed and gave each of them a kiss on the forehead. "_Cuio vea, hîn vuin_", I whispered, but my voice was failing.

I took my cloak and the boots that Imrazôr had given me after we wed, and quickly packed some hard bread and dried fish into an old backpack. When the door of my home had closed behind me, I ran. The docks were close to our house. The boat I took belonged to one of Imrazôr's more distant trade connections. He was known as a rich merchant, and the loss of this small boat would do little damage to him. After all, theft was a small crime compared to the act I had just committed.

My hands were shaking when I raised the sail, my head throbbing, and my stomach in violent uproar. I almost dropped the backpack into the sea. The autumn night was clear, the stars shone both from the sky and from the still surface of the water. The beauty of it burned my eyes. It was unbearable. I curled up below deck and emptied my stomach, sobbing and heaving violently until sleep took me.

The next morning dawned as bright as the previous day had been. A breeze had caught my sail, and I was already so far into the bay of Belfalas that land was just a thin, green strip behind me. I had actually slept with closed eyes this time, and it had given me some strength back. The shadow from the mast pointed like an arrow towards the West when the sun rose. At the same moment, I felt movement deep within my belly for the first time.

There is little to say about the rest of the journey. I fell into a rhythm, adjusting my course with each sunrise and sunset. The waves grew tall, and even the calls of the seagulls faded. My body disagreed with me more and more. I could hardly move without throbbing pain in my head, and my limbs swelled up. I soon spent more time half asleep than awake, lost in some disturbing dream. I was now completely in the hands of destiny and the Sea.

I have no conscious memory of the moment when the boat reached the Straight Road, or what came after it. After what has been told me later, it drifted into a small bay close to the city of Avallónë. A lone fisherman found me, unconscious, in the boat. Out of divine grace or a great coincidence, his wife Eärlindë was a trained midwife. She managed to strengthen my spirit enough that my daughter was safely delivered into her arms, while I was still delirious. In fact, I owe my life to her. If it hadn't been for her treatment, the poison that was left in my body would have easily killed me. She refused to let me drift away, but kept me awake so I could hold my newborn daughter while she nursed for the first time. It must have against her nature to credit herself, because she said it was the soundness of this land that made it possible for us to survive.

Gaeril is her name. In case you don't know the Elven language anymore, it means "daughter of the Sea", but if you say it slightly different, it can also mean something close to "born out of terror". She was my only reason to cling to Life.

Fàrandil and Eärlindë treated me as if I was their own daughter, and Gaeril their granddaughter. I spent at least a month in bed, first drifting in and out of consciousness, but later more aware of my surroundings apart from Gaeril. It felt like a great victory when I could step outside for the first time. My legs were weak, but the sun warmed me and the view was fairer than anything I had seen since my early youth. Their house was placed where the beach and forest met; between the sand and the trees was a rolling field of heather and green shrubs. Sheep grazed between the shrubs, and the hillside was almost impossibly green. When Eärlindë came and placed Gaeril in my lap, I felt a moment of happiness, the first in what felt like ages.

This is the only clear memory I have of that time, though. It could be that the effort of going out was too much. I lost the track of time. Time passes differently in the West than in the East, and as I later learned, a half-elven child matures more slowly here due to the nature of the land. My mind was dulled. There was a room inside it which my consciousness refused to touch. Time passed like this, and my daughter grew from the frail infant she had been into a beautiful young girl. She had inherited the thick, brown, wavy hair from Imrazôr's mother, and my own grey eyes.

When what I thought was a few years had passed, we dared the journey into town. There was a great commotion, because a grey ship had arrived from Middle Earth. To my great wonder, one of my childhood friends was among those who stepped off the ship. I couldn't contain myself, but took my protesting daughter's hand and ran towards her. Alpheth and I had been as sisters when we grew up. She was greatly surprised to see me, and we spent a while in a local inn, catching up. She was weary from the journey, but had many things to tell.

I ended up inviting her to my new home. Her own family lived on the other side of the island, and it would do her good to rest before moving on. Fàrandil and Eärlindë were delighted to hear news from the other side of the ocean. I had been in no shape for gossip when I first arrived. Their language was different from mine and Alpheth's, but we could understand each other well enough in most ways.

Gaeril was fortunately fast asleep when the words that changed my life were said. According to Alpheth, more than sixty years of the Sun had passed since I sailed. My head spun. Galador and Gilmith must already have grown up, a long time ago. And Imrazôr...my dear husband, he must already had passed beyond the circles of the world. All this time, I had unconsciously thought that it was possible to return after healing was complete.

The full weight of my actions crashed down on me like a breaking wave. I ran blindly out of the house, and ran without any conscious direction until the Sea was in my way. The weather was windy, and for a moment I considered simply throwing myself into the waves like lord Amroth had done. On the other side of the wide strait was the bright coast of Valinor, beautiful and terrible. Maybe, if I tried to reach the other side, I would be punished for my sins...

My desperate thoughts were interrupted by Eärlindë, who had followed my tracks and almost literally dragged me back to their house. I was not allowed to die, not after the effort she had put down in saving us. She yelled at me, and asked if I was really trying to leave the only daughter I had left? I would happily have faded from shame, but she did not allow it. Where she got the strength is a mystery to me. She stayed with me day and night, saw to Gaeril who must have been terrified, and made sure that I ate every day and answered when she talked to me. When she wasn't there, Alpheth or Fàrandil would sit in my room instead. It added to my shame that poor Alpheth, who must have sorely missed her family, chose to stay here instead.

One day, I overheard a conversation between Fàrandil and Eärlindë through the window. He told her a chilling story about an ellon who had appeared on one of the recent ships, his spirit too damaged from war to interact with others. He went on to describe, in vivid details, how he had been brought to Lòrien for healing and what had happened to him there. The process of restoring his innocence had been terrible, but necessary, and he was just now learning to speak and recognise his family again.

It scared me senseless on a basic level. This would not happen to me! Slowly, I started climbing back to life again. I started paying attention to the smells of food and grass, the birds outside the window, my daughter's voice when she sang. How could I not have noticed that beautiful voice before! It gave me some strength to know that she still knew song and happiness, even when her mother had almost deserted her as she had deserted her siblings. Gaeril was utterly delighted when I smiled at her one morning when she brought me food. It nearly broke my heart again, how many days must she have watched over me and not seen any improvement? I stood up and held her, and we cried together in the far too well used bedroom.

Many years have passed since this happened. It has been more than six yèni since I left Middle Earth. Ships still arrive, and with each one, news arrives too. I have learned that Galador founded a line of princes, and that his line has been one of good rulers. I have heard of great battles, but also of births and weddings. Only now, when the trees whisper about a great victory in the East, have I found the courage to write this letter. "The Shadow has fallen", they say. "Sing and be happy, your people is free!" My heart tells me that somebody from my son's line played a part in that victory.

There is of course no sure way to deliver this letter. Many ships sail West, but very few times have ships sailed East. There is one, of course, but I would never dare to approach **that** sailor. Maybe I will seal it in a bottle like children do, and throw it into the sea. Maybe it somehow will, by the grace of the Valar, find its destination.

May your paths be green and your life filled with song and laughter. My thoughts will always be with you.

Mithrellas, once of Lothlòrien and Belfalas.

Notes: English isn't my first language, and any corrections are welcome. The Sindarin phrase "_Cuio vea, hîn vuin_" means "Farewell, my dear children". "Ellon" means male Elf.


End file.
